


a fixed constant [in this crazy, revolving world]

by shipwreckinabottle



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Patching Injuries, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 09:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15883038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreckinabottle/pseuds/shipwreckinabottle
Summary: In which Maria, not Fury, was the one who showed up at Steve's apartment, half bleeding to death.





	a fixed constant [in this crazy, revolving world]

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this went from a thousand word prompt to a 5.3k word short story. What-?!
> 
> So, slight AU, where Maria, not Nick, was the one who showed up at Steve's apartment during CA:TWS. 
> 
> Not beta-ed, let me know if there are any mistakes / if you'd like to help out.
> 
> Also, if you'd like to prompt me too, [Click Here.](https://shipwreckinabottle.tumblr.com/post/177321349553/mcu-one-shot-promts-aka-i-need-more-writing)

It’d been awhile since he’d last changed their flowers. The white carnations were in various stages of decay, withering stems like pale, broken crowns; but considering he’d spent the last three weeks undercover in Eastern Sokovia, dismantling a rogue terrorist cell and recovering the stolen nuclear warhead in their possession, he supposed his parents wouldn’t mind the late flowers this time round.  
_  
\-- In Loving Memory Of  
Joseph and Sarah Rogers_  
  
Buried in a small corner of the ancient cemetery, overran by moss and darkened by year, his parents shared a single gravestone marker; stark and simple, and unlike the flowers, still withstanding the slow, inevitable decay of time.  
  
The small plot of land was all he could afford back then, and it felt a lot smaller than he remembered. But he supposed everything looked bigger before the war, before he took the Super Soldier Serum, and before the last seventy-years of his life was ripped away in less than a blink.  
  
The twenty-first century certainly took a bit getting used to, especially for a small Brooklyn neighborhood kid like himself. Everything was faster and louder now, some of it scarier, but mostly a whole lot bigger.  
  
He was adjusting, at a comfortable pace no less, and his teammates, his friends, were a lot more accommodating than he gave them credit for. The _List_ definitely helped too. It’d grown from a single page of ten cultural recommendations to almost a full book, and he’d once told Natasha that he might need all of his seventy years back and then some in order to finish maybe even half of the things they’d suggested.  
  
Most things had changed for the better; science, medicine, civil rights, and a general increase in the quality of life. But even so, there were still nights when he’d think back in fondness, back to a time when things were simpler, slower, and of the generations who came here before him, the dreamers and the romantics, the Saturday night dances and a sky full of stars unpolluted by city lights.  
  
He did miss the simpler times. And perhaps that was why he liked the old cemetery that much. It wasn’t only the unspoken, respectful silence, away from the cacophony of hollow-eyed late-night commuters desperate to make ends meet, and the constant buzz of mindless television shows glorifying everything wrong with this world. But the timelessness of it all; like a quiet companion, a fixed constant in this crazy, revolving world, enduring all these years as if he’d never left, as if it’d been waiting for him all this time.  
  
His mother was catholic, so he replaced the flowers and offered her a small prayer. The same she’d taught him all those years ago in front of grandmother’s grave. His father on the other hand, was not much of a religious man; hard to be with some of the things Joseph had seen with the hundredth and seventh brigade. Steve often wondered how his father, stoic and unfaltered by the changing industrial age, would react to the twenty-first century, of the Gods and the Aliens and the Men in Robot Suits.  
  
So, he offered him a prayer too.  
  
When he was done paying his respects, he cleaned the lone marker beside theirs.  
  
This marker was newer than his parents’, but that meant little in the decades that had passed since it was planted.  
  
He didn’t bring flowers for this gravestone. Not out of disrespect, but quite the opposite.  
  
The person here didn’t care much for flowers.  
  
“Hey buddy,” he said after a quiet while, fingers pressed against the raised lettering. “Thanks for watching over my parents all these years.”  
  
- _With A Greater Thing To Do,  
Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes  
1917-1945  
Until we meet again._  
  
-  
  
The elderly lady in the apartment beside his liked to alternate between a small handful of plants in the space outside her doorway; today it was the potted bamboo, adding some much-needed green to the otherwise dreary, monochromatic hallway.  
  
Steve’s keys jangled in his hand as he passed by the potted plants and, as he stopped in front of his apartment, Mrs. Harrington’s doorway, directly across from his—swung wide open, flooding the corridor with heavy perfume and loud classical music.  
  
“Steven,” she brushed back a headful of messy grey curls and pushed a pair of thick-rimmed glasses up her nose. “Is that you?” she wrinkled at him. “Can’t see well in this light.”  
  
“Yes ma’am,” he looked down at his keys. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”  
  
Mrs. Harrington snorted. “Oh dearest, no, I was still up. Can’t sleep worth a damn in this lousy place. Pipes leaking all night long, heater’s not working again, and even my whole door’s falling apart.” She shook the doorway, which started to creak, for added emphasis.  
  
It was true. Downtown Brooklyn wasn’t the most glamourous, and when Tony found out where he was staying, Tony was mortified (something about the above national average crime rate), immediately offering him a place at the currently-renovating Avengers Towers, or at least a proper (which meant 5-star) hotel of his choosing, all expenses paid.  
  
Steve declined, of course. What Tony didn’t get was that money wasn’t the issue; SHIELD paid well, and with his army pension collecting a decent chunk of compound interest for the last seventy-years thanks to Howard, Steve was comfortable, a lot more than he’d like, and a lot more than he was used to.  
  
What made him choose this particular neighborhood however, wasn’t the dirt-cheap rent, but of how much it reminded him of _home_. Red Hook was still there, a short trip away, but almost unrecognizable now; the art school demolished, the stadium replaced by a shopping mall, and there were far too many apartment complexes now. Everything was too new, too fresh, like something painted over a familiar canvas, the etch and notches still felt underneath the fresh paint but invisible, as if no longer there.  
  
Downtown Brooklyn on the other hand, without the luxury condominiums but older wood framed, vinyl sided and brick buildings, still felt exactly like _home_ , leaky pipes, creaky floorboards and all.  
  
“—A dozen complaints to the landlord in the past two months,” Mrs. Harrington’s rant continued, freeing him from his thoughts. “And you know what that good-for-nothing-bastard’s done about it?”  
  
“No ma’am.”  
  
“Absolutely nothing!”  
  
He gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’ll try to give him a call in the morning.”  
  
“Good,” and as if she’d gotten exactly what she wanted and no longer had any use left for him, the door slammed shut. A second later however, her head popped out again. “Oh and Steven, I think you left your stereo on.” Then the door slammed shut again, leaving him once more alone in the hallway, his only companion the insistent flickering of a broken hallway sign.  
  
Adrenaline surged through his veins.  
  
He did not leave the stereo on. He was sure of it. But Mrs. Harrington was right. He could hear it, ears pressed to the door, a light trickle of music, something calming and instrumental, unlike the sudden thrum of his heart against ribs.  
  
Immediately turning away, he headed down the opposite end of the hallway, past the dying overhead lights and disappearing into darkness.  
  
When the lights flickered once more, he was no longer there.  
  
A minute later, he was on the roof of the apartment building, dangling off the side of a ten-storey plummet with only his fingers to the ledge. Cold winds blasted him from all sides, but ignoring them, he carefully navigated from ledge to ledge, inching his way in the direction of his apartment.  
  
His place did not have a balcony, but the kitchen window was an accessible point of ingress. With one hand holding onto the railing, he lifted the windowpane and, as quietly as possible, slipped into the building.  
  
It was dark inside, and he realized it was quiet. Too quiet. The stereo had been turned off, as if the intruder had learned of his arrival and left, or was perhaps hiding in silence, preparing for an ambush.  
  
His shield was where he’d left it. He held it close, senses on high alert, eyes slowly focusing in the dark.  
  
_Click_.  
  
He spun around, movements fuelled by instinct, pivoting towards the sound with his shield drawn in front of him. But there came no familiar clang of an impacted bullet against vibranium steel, and as adrenaline seeped, he realized the sound wasn’t the click of a firing pin, but the switch of a lamp.  
  
Warm light washed across the living room, revealing modest furniture and the presence of a lone female figure. The bulb was pointed away from where she sat, and her face remained shrouded in darkness, but he’d recognize that too-straight-to-be-natural posture anywhere.  
  
“Hill,” he said as he turned on the living room lights. “I don’t remember giving you a ke--”  
  
Words caught in his throat as shadows evaporated, and emerged a bloodied and battered Maria Hill; her suit was black with blood, too much to only be hers; multiple cuts laced across her visible body, a large gash across her forehead; and her clothing riddled with the unmistaken burns of bullet holes, more so than he could count.  
  
Before he could speak again, she pressed an index finger to her lips. A sign for him to hush. He complied as she got up and, with a painful wince, turned off the lights. The room fell into darkness once more, and the music resumed soon after, taking a much jazzier turn.  
  
_I don’t understand_ , he signed in non-verbal military hand signal, his left arm swung to the side, palm facing outwards. He attempted to approach, to gauge the severity of her wounds, but she stopped him with a lift of her hand.  
  
He waited as she took out her phone and began typing.  
  
[ _SHIELD compromised_ ] She showed him the screen. [ _Ears everywhere. Were you followed?_ ]  
  
He nodded, then shook his head.  
  
It wasn’t what he’d expected. Not even close.  
  
She typed something else.  
  
[ _Do you have your CS-kit?_ ]  
  
He nodded again. Every SHIELD agent had their own Counter-Surveillance kit. He knew exactly what she was asking of him. Grabbing the briefcase out from under his bed, he emptied its contents onto the dining table; a handheld scanner, a small box containing half a dozen metal disks, and a pair of unremarkable, unassuming glasses.  
  
He pressed the tiny disks into the walls of his apartment, evenly spread apart, and activated them with the scanner. A small beep later, powerful electronic interference now disrupted the entire block, effectively rendering all surveillance devices worthless.  
  
He then put on the glasses, which unlike its plain design, contained high-powered optics, allowing him to switch between night-vision, thermal, and infrared with the press of a button.  
  
Leaving the apartment for a minute, he climbed to higher ground in order to better scan his surroundings.  
  
Nothing stood out. But then again, experienced agents were trained to remain as inconspicuous as possible. So, he switched between the three modes, trying to spot anything out of place, even the most minor of details. Again, nothing stood out, not even stray radio waves that did not belong.  
  
He returned to the apartment.  
  
“We’re alone,” he couldn’t find any listening devices in the vicinity, but kept his voice down nonetheless. It was always better to be safe than sorry. “Jesus, how are you still alive?”  
  
Maria motioned to the two cracked vials on the ground with a tilt of her head. “Painkillers and adrenaline,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Mostly a lot of painkillers.”  
  
“What happened?” he kneeled down beside her, voice softening. “Are you okay?”  
  
“Hydra,” her lips grimaced in the shadows, as if she was more annoyed by the current circumstances than her own injuries. “Hidden inside SHIELD the whole time, like a damn virus.” She wiped at her forehead and her glove came away wet. Perspiration and blood; he suspected not all of it hers. “Tried to kill me,” she hissed. “Damn near succeeded, but I managed to escape.”  
  
“We need to get you to a hospital,” his face creased with worry when his hands, resting against the sofa, came away drenched in red. “You’ve lost too much blood. You-… You’re still losing blood. I need to call-”  
  
“No,” her hand latched down onto his. An iron grip even in her current state. “No calls,” she shook her head and said between pained breaths. “We don’t know who we can trust,” her grip slackened as she leaned backwards. “I… I need you to patch me up. And stop the bleeding… not in that order.”  
  
Her voice had lost its usual firmness, and there was a familiar glaze in her eyes that he’d seen all too many times during the war; the look in an injured comrade’s eyes as they laid bleeding out on the battlefield, pinned down by mortar fire and with help at least a couple hours away.  
  
Back then, he’d let too many of them slipped through his fingers that way.  
  
He wasn’t about to let her do the same.  
  
“Relax your shoulders,” he said, slinging her free arm over the back of his neck and, with his own under her leg, hoisted her up into the air. She muttered something unintelligible under her breath as he carried her over to the dining room table. Somehow, the idea of her rather getting shot than be seen carried around like this, especially by him, suddenly nagged at the back of his head, which he thought was pretty ironic considering her current situation.  
  
He grabbed an old first aid kit from under the kitchen sink; he wasn’t a doctor or anything even close to one, but he still had a bit of medical field experience from back during his days in the war. Most of it returned as instinct. _Examine the wound and stop the bleeding_. The science and the logic of it was simple enough, the execution however, was something else entirely.  
  
Bullets clang to the table as he shredded her kevlar. There was no tear, a good sign. It meant that the piece of protective fabric did its job in protecting her vital organs. But blood still seeped from the multiple wounds outside of the kevlar’s reach. He needed a closer look at the rest of them, but as he reached to unbutton her shirt, instinctual hesitation froze his fingers.  
  
It lasted only a second before he managed to snap out of it, barely a moment’s pause, but she noticed anyway, eyebrows cocking in a sarcastic _‘really?’_  
  
“Rogers,” she said, as if with the ability to read his mind. “Now is really not the time for modesty.”  
  
“Sorry,” he muttered, a little embarrassed. “Habit.”  
  
She shrugged, her back arching, allowing him easier access to undress her down to her undergarments. He did not comment on the gun holsters she wore underneath, nor the large tactical knifes strapped to the side of each leg. Instead, he put on a pair of surgical gloves from the kit and got to work.  
  
He examined the wounds; she had at least a dozen minor lacerations and bruises he’d have to tend to later, but first, the bullet wounds were his priority—the four he could see. The one that caught her in her upper right bicep went right through. That was good. And the makeshift tourniquet she’d applied previously made his job easier. He poured some QuickClot onto the wound and applied gauze.  
  
She winced at his touch, but there came no protests, no complaints.  
  
Two more bullets, one in her shoulder, the other in her thigh, were small caliber rounds, their trajectory likely impeded by her armor before lodging into skin. They were visible and easy to remove. More QuickClot and gauze went on afterwards.  
  
The last bullet however, proved a little trickier.  
  
The bullet was lodged inside her lower left abdomen, and in most cases, field doctors would leave the bullet in to prevent further bleeding until regaining access to proper medical facilities. But when he examined the wound, he saw that the gauze had completely soaked through, and that the skin around the wound was turning black.  
  
_Poison_.  
  
He couldn’t leave the bullet intact. Not when it was laced with poison. The longer it stayed inside her the more toxin would leak into her bloodstream and slowly kill her from within.    
  
“Shit,” he muttered.  
  
Her eyes turned to him, amused, obviously at his choice of words.  
  
“I have to get the bullet out,” he said.  
  
She looked down at the wound. “Shit indeed.”  
  
The bullet was deeper than he expected. He dug around with his surgical glove, but wasn’t successful on locating it. After his fourth failed attempt, she sat upright, pulled the knife from her leg holster and slammed it down into the table, inches from his face.  
  
“Just cut the damn thing out of me,” she spat, her face a mixture of pain and annoyance.  
  
He grabbed the knife and ran it over the stove, trying to sterilize it as well as he could. After letting the blade cool down, he returned to her side.  
  
“This is going to hurt,” he warned as the steel tip rested against flesh.  
  
“I can take it,” she gritted her teeth.  
  
He pressed the knife against the wound.  
  
Her body tensed at the contact. “Wait,” she winced. “At least pour me a damn drink first.”  
  
It took his brain a second to register what she was asking.  
  
“I…” he responded sheepishly, “don’t have any alcohol in here.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“Yeah. Alcohol does nothing for me, because you know, enhanced metabolism and all,” he said. “And have you seen the price of a beer in the twenty-first century?”  
  
“Fuck’s sake, Rogers,” she bit a spare piece of gauze between her teeth as she laid back down on the table. “Just shoot me again and get it over with.”  
  
He grinned. “No guns here either.”  
  
-  
  
Two hours, a bit more blood loss, some antibiotics, and a whole ton of stitching later, she was out of immediate danger. At least she seemed to be. The sutures weren’t perfect, the bandage-use was a bit more excessive than necessary, and he wasn’t sure if the antibiotics had an expiry date, but she was alive. And that was all that mattered.  
  
This time, she was conscious enough to protest when he attempted to carry her over to the bedroom. In the end, after accidentally reopening a wound and then reapplying the suture, she yielded and allowed him so. As she settled into his bed, he went into the kitchen and returned with a bunch of towels and a pot of warm water.  
  
He dipped the towel into the water, squeezed out the excess and, after being granted permission, pressed the fabric against her skin. Careful as to not disturb the fresh sutures, he cleaned the dried blood with utmost care, touch lighter than a feather, as if dealing with something so fragile, so on the verge of cracking even with the slightest touch.  
  
Something she was not.  
  
But still.  
  
A soft hum left her lips as the towel brushed against the side of her face. “I can do this on my own you know,” she said, without the usual harshness to her voice.  
  
“I know,” he said. “But I insist.”  
  
“Okay.” There were no further arguments.  
  
-  
  
She was awake when he returned with coffee.  
  
Maria stared at him from the quiet lights, still as a cat, shadows contouring her hardened features, leaving behind something that almost seemed _soft_.  
  
Her tone though, was anything but. “You should get some sleep,” she said firmly, as if giving him orders. Perhaps she was. “You’re up for close to three days now.”  
   
“I can rest when we take down Hydra,” he sat down beside her. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“I’m fine,” was all she said as her face turned away, as if something about their changed proximity made her uncomfortable. And she probably was. Not because of him, he knew, as she wouldn’t have shown up, her life completely in his hands if she didn’t trust him, but entirely because of the fact that she did.  
  
It’d been three days since she’d shown up at his place halfway to an early grave, but even after five rolls of bandages and more than three dozen stitches later, she still flinched at his touch, and not just from the pain.  
  
Sometimes, he wondered if it was getting shot, or requiring him to patch her up and tend to her wounds that Maria hated more.  
  
-  
  
A loud crash woke him from his sleep, and the first thing he noticed was the empty bed beside him. He wasted no time getting up to his feet, shield in hand as he sprinted in the direction of the kitchen where the sound came from.  
  
She was there. Standing over broken glass from a dropped coffee pot.  
  
He accessed the situation and, realizing there was no danger, placed down his shield.  
  
He asked, “Are things alrigh-”  
  
“You know damn well they aren’t, Rogers,” she snapped. “SHIELD’s gone, Fury’s likely dead, and I can’t even make a damn pot of coffee with my arm like this.” A second of silence came and went. She reached up and pressed her hands to her temple. “I’m… sorry,” she said. There was blood running down the side of her face. “Damn stitch popped again.”    
  
“It’s okay, here let me take a look,” he said as he walked over to her, slightly wincing as he stepped on a stray piece of glass in the dark.  
  
She noticed. “Your leg.”  
  
“No worries, I heal fast.” He led her back into the living room, making sure to step first so that she’d miss all the glass afterwards.  
  
She sat on the table as he went back to clean up the glass. When he returned, she was rummaging through the bedside drawer. “Trying to find the needle,” she muttered.  
  
“Let me do it instead,” he said. “You’re going to end up tearing something else.”  
  
Resistance flashed in her eyes, but after a moment’s defiance, they faltered; she knew he was right. “Fine.”  
  
He grabbed some fresh towels, bandages, and the suture kit. Her head tilted towards him as he sat down in front of her, allowing him to clean away some of the blood.  
  
“We’re out of anaesthesia,” he said apologetically after digging through the kit.  
  
“Figures,” she sighed. “Doesn’t matter, I’ve had worse.”  
  
That he knew. The rest of her injuries, and the many past scars he noticed while applying the bandages were a good indication of which she’d suffered. When he cleaned the wound with disinfectant and antibacterial fluid, she remained as still as a statue, barely even blinking through the whole process.  
  
With the lights turned off as they’d for the last three days (as per her orders so not to arouse suspicion to anyone watching his place), he’d have to use the outside lights, which weren’t much at this time of night, and only a single line of illumination from an old streetlamp, filtered through the curtains.  
  
It required him to lean close to her in order to properly see the wound, so close he knew she could feel his breath on her skin, because he could feel hers too. Her body tensed when the needle found flesh, but she remained quiet, her breathing unchanging as he started to replace the sutures.  
  
“I know things aren’t easy right now,” he said suddenly. “But… I promise we’re going to make it through.” When he managed to close the wound, he placed an arm on her other, uninjured shoulder. “We’re going to take down Hydra and take back SHIELD,” a light reassuring squeeze. “Even if it’s just the two of us.”  
  
Later on, when she was back in bed and he was lying down on the couch, she whispered, so softly he barely caught it, “You have steady hands for an old man.”  
  
From the way she’d said it, he couldn’t tell if the line was meant as a joke, or just an observation of hers. Perhaps even a bit of both.  
  
But he smiled nonetheless. “That I do.”  
  
After that day, she no longer flinched at his touch.  
  
-  
  
On the morning of the assault, there were only the two of them left in the armory.  
  
Natasha had left the night before in order to infiltrate and assume the identity of a World Security Council member, and Sam was already with the advanced assault team, in position to strike at Maria’s signal.  
  
The two of them sat quietly by the work bench. She was checking the scope of her high-powered rifle and he was cleaning the barrel of his gun. Firearms were never Steve’s first choice, but he’d became proficient with them during the war, and on an assault of such scale, he thought necessity might just tend to outweigh his preferences.  
  
When Maria was satisfied with her weapon’s scope, she stored it in her locker. But as she started to close the door, something strange caught his eyes. A pair of plump, pink heels, neatly packed at the bottom. Something he knew she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.  
  
“I’m either very out of touch, or that’s not military-standard,” he said, trying to lighten the situation, and because he was a hell of a lot damn curious.  
  
She slammed the locker shut and, as if proving a point, grabbed a pair of dark combat boots instead. “Not all soldiers have the same responsibilities, Rogers,” she said with no clear emotions in her eyes, no tell-tale sign of what was going on through her head. “Some of us have work duties outside of active field work, and that, sometimes, involves a bit of dress up.”  
  
“Seems a bit… too glamourous for a business function, no?” he smiled. “Can’t imagine how a five-star general would react if you were to walk up to him in those heels. You know what? They remind me of the ones girls during my time would wear for Saturday night dances.”  
  
“Saturday night dances?” an eyebrow cocked upwards.  
  
“Yeah, we used to go dancing every weekend back during the war. It’s how we… ease up after a mission. It doesn’t take away everything we saw, or the men we lost, but… I guess it helps in clearing a soldier’s head, at least until his next mission.”  
  
“Makes sense. People cope in different ways,” she paused. “Maybe I cope by dancing too.” It was said in the same vacant tone, with no possible way of telling if she was being honest or lying through her teeth. “Is that a problem?”  
  
“Not at all,” he shook his head. “It’s just… not what I expected.”  
  
“And what were you expecting?”  
  
“I don’t know, pretty dress and combat boots?”  
  
“Combat boots?” she asked, amusement in her voice.  
  
“You’re definitely a woman who prefers functionality over appearances. Heels restrict movement, boots do not.”  
  
“And the pretty dress?”  
  
That caught him a little off-guard. But he recovered well. “You did say it was for a work function,” he grinned. “I highly doubt you’ll attend in combat slacks.”  
  
“Good catch,” she said. “And I thought Stark was the slick one.”  
  
-  
  
Later on, as the two of them stood on the cargo ramp of the quinjet, winds blasting at hundreds of miles per hour, he shouted over the headset, “Hill! How about! When this is all over! We go dancing!”  
  
“What!?” an incredulous look came across her face.  
  
“Saturday night dance! Like how we would in the forties!” he shouted. “I understand if it’s not something you-!”  
  
“Captain!” she interrupted him, emphasis on his rank. “Are you asking me out on a date!? Right now?!”  
  
“If you’d like, ma’am!”  
  
Even in the strong winds and the night sky, he could see the corners of her lips tilt, just a little. Almost resembled a smile too. “That can be arranged!”  
  
-  
  
_“Steve!”_  
  
Smoke and dust filled his lungs. He couldn’t breathe.  
  
He stumbled through the debris of the fallen helicarrier, unable to tell the direction, unable to tell even up from down.  
  
But he could hear her.  
  
_Maria_.  
  
Calling out to him. A sense of direction. He followed the voice, pushing through the burning wreckage—and finally, he could breathe.  
  
He collapsed onto the ground, pulled off his helmet and heaved for air. He wanted to call out to her, to let her know that he was fine. But he couldn’t. He was too weak.  
  
She found him nonetheless.  
  
He saw her through the dust, face covered in soot and eyes full of worry.  
  
“I found Rogers, he’s down,” she said into their comlinks. “Sam, I need you back up in the sky, now!”  
  
Steve could hear Sam’s acknowledgement from his own comlink. But soft, distant, like listening to someone talk underwater. He couldn’t tell if there was something wrong with his earpiece or if it was his hearing instead.  
  
Then she was beside him. Soft hands pressing against the side of his face. “Steve, thank god you’re fine,” she whispered, forehead pressed against his, a fleeting second of solace in the chaos around them. “I was afraid you were-”  
  
“I… just needed to lie down for a bit…” he breathed. “I’m okay.”  
  
“I’m glad.”  
  
“We still have a dance to--”  
  
An explosion caved in the platform—and she was torn from him.  
  
Fire rose up like the jaws of a hungry demon, swallowing all in its fold.  
  
He jumped forward as she fell back into the fire, fingers hooking onto hers.  
  
And as he caught her, he swore never to let go.    
  
She teetered on the edge.  
  
Then—her glove slipped off.  
  
And he was alone again.  
  
Another explosion ravaged the fallen helicarrier from beneath.  
  
He moved, purely from instinct, leaping away as fire consumed where he was seconds ago.  
  
When he finally escaped the burning wreckage, her glove was still tightly clutched in his hands.  
  
He looked up to the sky, in the direction of the final helicarrier where he knew Bucky was waiting.  
  
_There will be a time to mourn_.  
  
He knew she’d want him to complete the mission. And he would. Even if he was going to die trying.  
  
He stuffed the glove into his belt and ran in the direction of the nearest quinjet.  
  
-  
  
It rained during her funeral.  
  
Afterwards, it was just him, Natasha, and Sam.  
  
He placed her glove next to the fresh flowers he brought along.  
  
“Still waiting for the dance,” he whispered.  
  
Then, promising to visit after his next mission, he saluted, and left.  
  
-  
  
It was half a year later, and two weeks after the abolishment of the Sovokian Accords before he was allowed back on American soil and not as a wanted fugitive.  
  
It was another week before he found the time to visit his parents’ grave. He brought along flowers as usual, but someone else already beat him to it.  
  
He stared at the white carnations for the longest time, wondering if it was a mistake.  
  
He checked the flowers; there was no note, no indication as to whom they were from.  
  
But at the bottom of the arrangement, tied between the strings holding the stems together, he found a SHIELD-issued Microdrive, no bigger than a drop of rain.  
  
He took the long way home, running counter-surveillance to make sure he wasn’t being followed.  
  
He wasn’t.  
  
When he got home, he turned on his laptop, activated the security measures and plugged in the Microdrive. He allowed the security tools to run a full scan on the drive.  
  
No malicious files were found.  
  
There was a single folder, and only a single video file titled, _“Watch me_.”  
  
His curser hesitated over the clip for a long second.  
  
Then he clicked.  
  
“ _Hello, Steve_.”

**Author's Note:**

> She survived, obviously, and went into hiding like Fury. 
> 
> I like to think that the video opened with the smuggest smile possible.
> 
> It's my first try with this pairing, let me know what you think :]


End file.
